Intermingled

From what I understand from the giant’s stilted, sketched account, this is the way it happened: On a late spring day, when we were warm down in the valley but there was still snow up in the mountains, she and her mother went out collecting mountain goats. It’s true that mountain goats are winter-skinny and poor eating that time of year, but it’s the time of year when creatures living on the edge of mountains can’t afford to be fussy about what they eat.

late spring we’re still snow and collecting time to be

She didn’t tell me, but I imagine, that for so long it had been just her and her mother that they didn’t really need to talk to get on with what they were doing. They knew where to go, what to do, who would do what. Maybe they’d been doing it for so long that they forgot to be careful. Maybe it was something that would have happened no matter how careful they were. Maybe her mother was deliberately not careful, because she was tired, because she was sad, because she was cold. Crouching close to the edge of a cliff, reaching her inconceivable arm down to a rocky ledge to scoop up a prized ram, she lost her balance—so the giant, the last giant, speculated. She saw it only from a distance, from her own cliff edge that she was negotiating with a heavy bag of goat, but she still heard it, whenever she heard anything like it—a cry, a crash—or simply when she closed her eyes, or sometimes when she stopped to think about anything. It was the sound, she explained to me, of Alone. It took me a while to figure out that this phrase was not ragged grammar but a simple fact.

so long cold negotiating with alone

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More Things Fall Out of the Sky and Disturb My Hair

and the snow (crystalline) makes it shine
and the rain makes it smell more like hair
and the wind proves that everything we do can be undone
and the sun burns light into it (the operative word being

burns)

and the leaves that have died
and been reborn as memento mori entangle themselves in it
and crumble into dust as I take out my comb

— teeth and all —

and stare at it, wondering how
the clouds get so close to earth that they’re fog
and my hair and I walk sideways

into it

 

I’d offer you everything but the barometer’s falling

realistic dialogue

“So I get this word-a-day thing emailed to me every day by the Oxford English Dictionary and…”

“I hate the way the Oxford English Dictionary controls all the words. It’s elitist. They’re profiteering off the English language. Somebody has to challenge their power.”

“We could storm the ramparts of their headquarters and ride triumphantly away with a new vocabulary.”

“It’s not that easy. They control the meanings of the words ‘ramparts’ and ‘storm,’ so our options are limited.”

snowed in
the war is just
an anagram


 

with thanks to Brad for half of the dialogue and most of the humor

long…

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long winter night
the crackling
of text messages

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lingering cold
my breath clouds
the phone screen

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melting snow
I change my ring tone
to something faster

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These days this blog is basically my playground. I think I used to have much more of a sense of trying to impress people or please them when I wrote here. Or maybe I didn’t? I don’t really remember anymore. But I know that lately this idea of the blog as my playground has been very strong in my mind. For a while it felt like a burden, like a chore I had to do. Maybe it just got to be that way after a while. Now it’s like, oh, I get to write some stuff! I get to write whatever I want! Whatever crazy thing comes into my head! And it really doesn’t matter if anyone likes it! Because blogs are free and no one has to read anything they don’t want to and even if no one reads it at all, I’m having a great time!

No, I’m not trying to say these haiku are especially crazy. They’re pretty conventional. They’re a little dull, to me. They’re what I felt like writing tonight.

I think tomorrow I’ll feel like writing something completely different.

Addendum, 4/5/14: Okay, I just discovered this. I really have to read my blog more often. Apparently I don’t have an original thought in my head.

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Very short haibun

 

In the bare branches of the lilac, clusters of oak leaves are lodged like lost mittens.

a snowy morning arranging for its own meaning

 

—–

In other news:

A ton of people have sent me polar vortex poems so far, which is great because it’s still so cold here that poetry is basically the only thing keeping me sane. You can send me any you’ve got till tomorrow morning. I’ll post them over the weekend.